


where it wasn't supposed to be (talk some sense to me)

by badfaithed



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 15:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badfaithed/pseuds/badfaithed
Summary: You’ve warmed up to him. haven’t you?Ah.





	where it wasn't supposed to be (talk some sense to me)

They truly get to meet each other by mutual friends, a meeting at a birthday gathering, a sincere apology for past events, an awkward moment shared together that dissolved into laughter, a phone number exchanged, and the goodbye at the door that felt entirely unforced, accompanied by a smile. A text message that turned into hundreds, the conversation thread growing longer and longer by the hour. A phone call that started with a quivering word, and ended with a chastising voice from the other side telling him to _just go to sleep already, Akashi-san,_ somehow managing to sound both concerned and teasing.

It’s one night when he listens to the other boy talk when he realizes what’s happening. He’s talking about his being forced to participate their school’s inter-class public speaking competition, and Akashi lets out a hum of acknowledgement before expressing a few words of encouragement, and expelling a quiet huff of laughter when the boy’s voice gets higher and faster with anxiety, finally leaving Akashi to take up the job to calm him down – not that he’s complaining, really. _It’s going to be okay, Furihata-kun,_ he hears himself say. _Things never turn out as worse as we expect them to be,_ he continues, but when he says, _well, at least, usually,_ he can’t help grinning when he hears Furihata groan, then continue rambling. He doesn’t mind, but then the colder voice of his other self drifts out of the darkness of his consciousness, and he zones out slightly, pressing fingers into his temples and thinking _what do you want now._

_You’ve warmed up to him. haven’t you?_

_Ah._

 

A month later, when he feels the thorns scratching at his throat uncomfortably, he isn’t surprised. A few days later, he coughs up a white petal, and the desperate laugh chokes its way out, and his eyes blur with tears, but he doesn’t know why he’s crying. He loves him, and he doesn’t love him back, it’s just fact, isn’t it? But he never manages to convince himself, so he traps himself in his room for the next few hours until he couldn’t cry anymore and he’d gotten rid of the six kuchinashi petals that’d escaped his lips. Then, he checks his phone and finds ten unanswered messages in his inbox, all from the one Furihata Kouki. His breath hitches when he sees _If something happened to you, please tell me, I care._ He bites his lip, and he steels himself to do absolutely everything to make sure Furihata doesn’t know. Akashi has to, because he knows the boy’s face will crumple in guilt, and he never wants to see that, because it’s not his fault, and he wants to do everything to make him happy.

(He searches up the disease later, and he’s pretty sure fate or any godly figure hates him, because beside gardenia, its meaning as “secret love” is listed.)

He hides it for two weeks, until Mibuchi bursts into the bathroom with zero sense of personal space after he’d excused himself from class when he felt a wave of nausea and a prickling at his throat, the telltale sign that he was going to throw up the damned petals. The other boy stares at him over the sink where the petals had spilled out of his hands, and Akashi panics for half a second before he forces control on himself and straightens up with a smile. They stand there for a few more moments until Mibuchi kind of half jumps on him and wraps his arms around his small frame from the side, burying his nose in his red hair while the discomfort prickles stiffly at his skin, enough to distract him from the pain in his chest. _Sei-chan,_ he mumbles, and Akashi relents after a minute, letting his stoic melt away slightly with a sigh, and talks. To his mild surprise, Mibuchi offers him a wry smile of understanding when he says he doesn’t want the surgery. When he thinks back on Hayama and Mibuchi’s closeness, and the latter’s avoidance of flower motifs, he feels less surprised.

It becomes more and more obvious to see, the way his voice rasps when he talks from where the thorns have scratched his throat, the way his characteristic red eyes water uncharacteristically when the stab of heartache blossoms into something much more real, and he feels grateful that Furihata isn’t around to see him in this state. He still texts him, but he puts a stop on the calls, because he knows he would figure out what the problem was in five seconds flat. He wonders if not trying to abstain more from contact is making his situation worse, because now he has more fond memories of the boy to remember, but he cannot bring himself to stop. The idea of whatever they had fizzling out to nothingness made the flower in his lungs surge and expand, causing him to have trouble breathing, and if it isn’t an obvious enough indication of his thoughts on the matter, he doesn’t know what is.

(He cannot hold himself back anymore, and he calls him.)

 

“It hurts so much, Furihata-kun.”

“Akashi-san?! Are you okay? Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Seijuurou.”

“What?”

“Call me Seijuurou.”

“Then call me Kouki.”

 

It is another month later, and Akashi fails to hide it anymore when he doesn’t manage to get out of the classroom quick enough after another bout of particularly bad nausea and ends up coughing up dozens of white petals by the half-ajar door, and he collapses and the room sways dizzyingly around him from lack of oxygen, before his head collides with the floor and everything goes black. He can faintly hear voices calling his name, but he’s falling deeper into his own dark consciousness, painfully fast. He can hear the chilling voice of his alternate personality berating him, utterly quiet but threatening, but even that sounds like it’s from far away, and the only thing he can pick up properly is Kouki’s choked up, trembling voice telling him to _wake up, Seijuurou, please. Please, please, please, I need you to wake up. I need to talk to you again, please,_ and the wetness falling like petals onto his cheek.

Miraculously, he does, but not for long. He wakes to Kouki’s face swimming into focus before him, and immediately as though it’s a reflex action, white petals begin spilling from his lips as he coughs. Within a fraction of a second, Kouki’s brown eyed attention is directed to him, and Akashi’s eyes widen when he feels Kouki’s hands tightening around his own. The point guard doesn’t speak, but his pained gaze speaks volumes. After a few seconds, he whispers, _it’s me, isn’t it_ and Akashi tears up, but nods anyway. At the feeling of petals rising in his throat like bile, he sits up as quickly as he can and throws up, grey spots flickering across his vision even as his chest heaves in agony. Faintly he’s aware of Kouki rushing to alert the doctors, but when he grows close enough Akashi grips his wrist. “Kouki,” he gasps. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t talk, Seijuurou, it’ll only make it worse!” Kouki half-screams desperately. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-” “No, it’s my fault.” Akashi interrupts, somehow managing a non-grimace even with petals mid-cascade from his lips. “Kouki,” he says quietly, “Thank you for everything, and-” He coughs violently, and Kouki rushes forward, steadying his shoulders. Akashi’s cough stutters to a momentary halt, and he smiles up at Kouki, before his lips formed the last words he would ever say, on a deathbed of gardenias.

 

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> probably ooc but it's almost 3am and i'm dying; unbetaed as always. title is from i found by amber run.  
> talk akafuri to me on my [tumblr](http://dogramagras.tumblr.com)


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